In Pursuit of Priam's Treasure
by europeanslang
Summary: um. so technically this is a crossover of Inception, the Guy Richie film Sherlock Holmes, and the BBC show Sherlock. Pairings are ArthurxEames, Hotson, and Johnlock. All six men join together to find an archaeologist and his fabled teasure.


It wasn't like Arthur to feel unprepared for a case. He preferred to have every detail of his mark's personality, career, and private life catalogued, along with a list of possible allies and enemies and several thorough backup plans, in a crisp, stiff manila folder with his or her name printed clearly on the allotted tab. Though he liked to have it all memorized in case the folder (and the backup flash drive on which copies of the documents were stored) were to be lost or stolen (despite the incredible odds of this occurring – all client folders were stored in a secure, password-protected briefcase and rarely removed, and the flash drive was encrypted). He had no time for variables. Variables were an invitation to danger. He thought of the Fischer job and how he had almost blown months of hard work due to his negligence. Sure, he had been stretched pretty thin: in addition to his usual task of gathering intelligence, he had had to show their new Architect the ropes, a job complicated by her obvious infatuation with him. Also, it had been a while since he'd seen Eames, the man who could make time fly unlike anybody else.

But those were just excuses. The facts were that he had failed to notice in the mark's financial records the transaction of a hefty sum from Fischer Enterprises to Bigelow Incorporated, one of the offshore aliases of a prominent extractor. He had failed to make the connection between a prominent businessman and his need to protect himself. He had failed, their client had been shot, and their mission was almost aborted.

_"This was your job, goddammit!" _Cobb's voice echoed in his head, emanating from an age when he wasn't retired and still pined to see his kids. Arthur smiled. He still remembered that feeling that had gripped him and reverberated in his head and hands and stomach like a defibrillator shock. Knowing the odds were stacked against him, but still wanting to fight back. It was like standing near the edge of a cliff and not caring about the sharp rocks at the bottom. Somehow, the direr their situation became, the more determined he was to succeed. It had been the product of circumstance, a particular circumstance that he wouldn't mind never seeing again.

But again he found himself about to begin a job he was not adequately prepared for. He attempted to stifle a feeling of dread that was settling like an unwanted blanket on his shoulders. Call it intuition, or maybe experience – he knew, somehow, that this job was not going to go well. But he had no idea if he would be so lucky this time.

It wasn't his fault that he was on his way, PASIV device in hand, to meet the mark now instead of three weeks in the future, when he really should be. Another week's preparation, at least. But here he was, on June 8, 2012, hardly a week after they had been contacted by their employer, who wished to remain anonymous (suspicious, but not unheard of). They/he/she/it had insisted, in a vaguely threatening manner, that the extraction take place on this hasty date. And while he didn't like it (he _loathed _it), he couldn't object. He was rarely in a position to complain.

A taxi pulled up to the curb as he walked down the sidewalk. Out popped Eames, wearing a plaid suit coat and a straw hat that couldn't possibly be his. Arthur didn't slow down his pace, but the other man caught up quickly, and had soon matched his stride. They hadn't even gone under and already Eames was ignoring the plan. No surprise there; Eames was an expert at breaking things he didn't understand were important.

"Hideous hat," he commented, unable to mask his annoyance.

Eames chuckled. "I'd wager my cab driver was too preoccupied with his generous tip to notice his now exposed bald spot."

Arthur sighed. He always worried enough for the both of them. And with good reason, it seemed. "Eames. Now might not be the best time to risk attracting attention."

He didn't need to look at Eames to know that his mouth had turned down a little at the comment. "My, aren't we a bit snappy today?" It was a taunt, but there was a drop of concern in it.

"I already told you, Eames," Arthur replied, barely above a whisper, "I have a bad feeling about this."

"You're always nervous before a job," he said lightheartedly, but it had little effect. They both knew he was lying. "Look, Arthur," he said quickly. He wasn't smiling anymore. "We work well together. We get results. That's the reason we're partners. Well…one of the reasons, anyway."

Arthur couldn't help himself – he smirked. Eames beamed.

"Now, darling, remind me again what the, uh, plan is for this one."

The smirk quickly faded. "We _just_ went over this in the hotel!" he suppressed a groan. He should have waited until after they were dressed to go over the case.

"Just a quick refresher, love. So the mark is some kind of scientist-"

"Archaeologist," Arthur corrected. "And professor," he gestured to the sign as they passed – "Boston University: Home of the Terriers!"

"Mmmm," Eames nodded. "What's the strategy for once we're down there?"

"We'll keep it simple. One level, a bank. Your job is to be his friend and get the code to the safe. I'll get the intelligence. Oh, and if we need to, we'll utilize his claustrophobia."

"Yeeahhhh…"

"Fear of closed spaces, Eames."

"Oh, right, right right right."

"It's so nice to finally talk to you," Arthur said, feigning eagerness. They were indoors, in the private office of Dr. Peter Evans. "My friend and I, er, Bill, had some questions about today's lecture."

Dr. Evans was a bit past middle age; the color was beginning to drain from his skin and hair. He leaned back in his chair across the desk that separated student and professor.

"Strange," he said cautiously. "I don't recall seeing you in my class today."

Eames smiled shyly. It was a rare expression for him. "Well, that's just it, Professor Evans. We missed the lecture entirely."

The professor raised an eyebrow, but did not reply. The two men watched as he took a long drink from the glass on his desk.

"I suppose I could give you a synopsis, he said. His voice sounded as if it was on a record that was beginning to slow. He didn't notice. "Of course, you'll have to copy the notes...from your..." his head suddenly fell forward onto the desk as one of Yusuf's quicker concoctions took effect. Within minutes Arthur and Eames had prepared themselves and the mark for the job. Another second and they were under.

"Petey! Petey Evans!" Eames said with false familiarity. His looks were disguised as Chris Rockwell, an old friend of Professor Evans'.

Professor Evans looked up from the money he had been counting, bemused. They were in the bank that Arthur built and designed, a modest building with two main rooms: the client area and the vault.

"Chris Rockwell! God, it's been too long!" Evans said with a clap on the shoulder. He grinned as if he hadn't seen his friend in ten years. According to Arthur, it was closer to eight.

"Indeed it has," replied Chris/Eames. He whistled and turned completely around as if to say, _impressive_. "You own this place?"

"Hell yeah I do," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. "Come on, I'll give you the tour."

Fifteen minutes later, they reached the vault. The gargantuan steel face of a monstrous safe occupied most of the western wall.

"And here's where I keep all that I hold dear to me," he said with a dramatic flourish of his arm.

Chris/Eames smiled. "What've you got in there, Petey? Lost treasures? Piles of rubies?"

He shrugged. "Just a few documents and some cash."

Chris/Eames struggled to contain his grin. This was going far better than expected. He had known that Arthur's fears were unfounded.

"Must be one hell of a password on that baby," he said in faux awe.

"Nah," Evans waved his hand dismissively. Then, with the foolishness of a man who trusts the wrong people, continued: "Just my wife – 'Sophia.' Seemed like an easy choice for the place I keep my secrets."

Then Chris/Eames led him away, claiming to be in dreadful need of some coffee. When they had left, Arthur removed himself from his hiding spot in the janitor's closet and approached the safe. Evans hadn't lied and in seconds, Arthur was in. He hadn't lied about the contents, either: the safe, the size of a small bedroom, contained stacks of bills, papers, and exactly zero priceless gems. In the middle, resting on top of a metal table, were several documents. There was practically a spotlight overhead, in case he missed the conspicuous signs that this was what he was looking for. Arthur rarely read the information he was hired to steal - if his employer found out he had, he would be a wanted man - but he had no inhibitions about reading these particular papers. The job had been going so well so far – nearly perfectly, in fact – that he felt he was risking nothing by sneaking a look at them. Besides, he reasoned, he was just verifying their authenticity.

"Do you have some cream?" Chris/Eames asked timidly. He glanced at his watch; they still had a few hours before the PASIV device would wake them. He sighed. He never knew what would happen when they went under, but he had never thought that a job could be _boring_.

He was nodding politely to something Evans was saying – something about his college days, or family vacations, or something else trivial – when he suddenly paused midsentence. Chris/Eames looked up in time to see his coffee cup shatter on the harsh tile floor. He seemed unfazed by the scalding liquid sprinkled on his shins; he continued to stare ahead in a wide-eyed gaze.

"…Petey?" he touched his shoulder tentatively, and then jumped – the professor suddenly began convulsing and clutching at his neck. He looked as though he was choking, but Chris/Eames knew for a fact that there was nothing to choke on. He watched in horror as the mark continued to struggle against an invisible adversary.

"Pete!" he cried in his native British accent. Not that Evans could have said anything at this point – Eames could tell that he was close to unconsciousness. He panicked, but knew there was nothing he could do without first knowing what was wrong.

The shaking stopped abruptly, and Eames, his disguise now forgotten, felt his hair stand on end. He would bet his plaid sports coat – he knew Arthur hated it, but wouldn't tell him – that the man had no pulse. But that wasn't what disturbed him. He had watched men die before, but of a gunshot wound, or poison, or _something_. This man had died of seemingly nothing, and he had only watched in paralyzed fear. A dread that he imagined Arthur had felt earlier embraced him.

Suddenly, a lucid idea pierced through his confused thoughts – something was very very wrong here. Arthur. He had to find him, and get out of here before…he didn't know. Never before had he possessed such a strong sense of discordance. An imaged popped into his head of a man strangled by an invisible hand – only this time, it was Arthur he couldn't save.

"Shit!" he cried. His hands were shaking. "_Arthur_!" His vision went blank.

Arthur didn't know how long he had been in the safe. He was reading the documents with greater and greater excitement. He didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't this. They had gotten tangled in something huge, and he was both excited and anxious about it.

He heard what sounded like ceramic hitting a stone floor somewhere outside of the safe and he quickly verified that no one was in the hall. When he looked back at the papers he was holding, however, he gasped. He knew it was impossible, but he could see his hands through the papers. The documents, which had been opaque not a moment before, were now the consistency of cloudy glass. He watched in wondrous shock as the papers grew more and more transparent until he could no longer feel their weight at all.

"Dammit!" he said angrily, checking the ground to see if they had somehow slipped through his fingers. They had not. He had no idea what had happened, but he was less concerned with the process than the result. No information meant they had failed, and failure meant they would be hunted. They would have to run, again.

"Shit!" Arthur heard the panic in Eames's shout and knew they were in trouble. He wouldn't have used his real voice unless there was no point in pretending.

Forgetting about the papers, Arthur rushed out of the safe and nearly fell into a chasm. A large portion of the hall was suddenly lacking a floor. He felt a little dizzy. After all, he was the Dreamer; he should have control of this world. But there was no time to ponder the chilling fact. With the cold determination only fear can grant, Arthur leapt across the gap and into the front room of the bank.

This room, at least, seemed to be as he had designed it. What bothered him was that it was completely empty. When had first entered the bank not half an hour ago, there had been at least a dozen projections of the mark's subconscious milling about and cashing their checks. He had heard their indistinguishable voices while he had been in the vault, for God's sake.

Until he had heard the shatter, that is.

Now the world was thrown into absolute silence, the kind that is a harbinger of bad news. His footsteps echoed like gunshots as he scanned the bank teller booths for some sign of life. Luckily, the bank wasn't very large, and he soon found what he was looking for.

The first thing he saw – the _only _thing he saw – was his partner's motionless body pinned under a collapsed part of the wall. There was no sign of why it had caved in at such an inopportune time.

"Eames!" he shouted. "Eames, wake up!" It was a command, not a plea. He slapped him across the face. Nothing.

He quickly scanned the room for something he could use – water, perhaps – when he noticed Evans' body sprawled on the floor behind him. The man was clearly dead, but Arthur could see no wound or injury.

"Arth…ur," Eames murmured, causing Arthur to rush to his side.

"Eames," Arthur said, with practiced calm. How many times before had he seen Eames incapacitated in a dream? And yet he could never get used to the sight. "How badly are you injured? Can you move your free arm? How did the wall fall on you? Are you alright?"'

"Arthur," Eames struggled to free himself, but found he couldn't. Too much of his body was immobilized. He was panting. "We…need…to go."

Arthur nodded. "We'll get you free, and then we'll wait it out until the PASIV wakes us up. I don't think we need to worry about projections because they all seem-"

"_No,"_ Eames grabbed Arthur's ankle with his free hand. "We need to go _now_."

"But why, Eames? We've got nothing to worry about, and Evans is…" Arthur stopped. He almost turned to look at the body, but decided against it. "Eames," he whispered. "How did he die?"

Eames strained to meet Arthur's eyes. "I don't fucking know," he replied, his voice trembling. Arthur had no idea what was going on, but Eames' reaction was enough to convince him that something wasn't right.

Arthur was about to respond when he noticed something dripping from the walls. It was blood.

"Okay," Arthur said quickly, subtly shifting his weight so that he hopefully blocked the sight from his partner. "Eames, do you think you can fire a gun?"

"Of course I can fire a bloody gun," he said with a chuckle that turned into a cough. "Don't think I'll be able to reach my jacket pocket, though," he said quietly.

"You don't need to," Arthur replied, placing a pistol into Eames' free hand. Then, he removed another for himself. "I had a bad feeling about this, remember?" He said in response to the other man's quizzical look.

"Looks like your paranoia has saved us yet again, my dear," the ghost of a smile appeared on his face, and then quickly fled. "What the bloody hell is _that_!"

So Eames had noticed the blood. Arthur turned to track its progress and stumbled upon something even more frightening: the body was gone. And if that wasn't all, his lightheadedness had returned, and there were spots in his vision. They were running out of time, and he had no idea why.

"Arthur? What's going on? I can't see a damn thing," Eames said with a hint of alarm. "If you left me here, I swear, you're sleeping on the couch tonight." He tried to crack a joke, but his tone was too frantic to achieve any laughter.

And now Eames was blind, Arthur realized. But that feeling had returned, the one from the hotel on the second dream level. The defense mechanism had kicked in again.

"Eames? Focus, okay? The lights went out, that's why you can't see anything," he laid down on his stomach, down at Eames' eye level. He felt something wet on his legs – probably the blood – but he didn't care.

"You're an awful liar, you know that?" Eames snapped. "But I'm glad you're still here."

Arthur didn't respond. He delicately guided Eames' hand, the one holding the pistol, to his forehead. The metal felt cool and terrifyingly real. But it always did…didn't it?

He pressed his own gun to his partner's temple. The metallic smell of the blood was nauseating. "Eames, are you sure you can do this?"

"Yes," he said quickly. The gun quivered slightly against Arthur's forehead.

He closed his eyes. "One…two…" And then everything was numb.

The first thing Arthur did when he woke up was take a deep breath. The second was glance to his left to make sure Eames had woken up too (he had). Only then did he remove the IV from his shuddering wrist.

"Arthur…" Eames said quietly. What Arthur saw caused their nightmarish experience to make horrifying sense.

Dr. Evans was dead. His body was covered in blood from the deep wound in his neck. A quick check of the adjacent rooms revealed that the murderer had fled. Only then did either of them dare speak.

"When we were down there, I, uh, watched him die," Eames explained, shaken. He couldn't take his eyes off the body. "But why not just shoot him?"

"He wanted him to suffer. Or…the killer didn't want us to wake up," Arthur replied. It had only been a guess, but it made a lot of sense. Well, kind of. "But why let us live at all…?"

"He didn't want to kill us," Eames said slowly. "He wanted to warn us. Did you get a look at the papers in the safe?"

"I…I started to read them…but they, well, disappeared," Arthur confessed. "It must have been when his brain was dying."

"What's that he's holding?" Eames gestured to the hand closest to Arthur. He bent down to get a better look. His fist, stiffened post mortem, clutched a slip of paper that he managed to pry from his grasp. It read:

**06/15/12**

**AE HW SJ**

"What the hell does that mean?" Eames said nervously, reading over Arthur's shoulder.

"I've no idea," Arthur replied carefully. "But we only have a week to find out."


End file.
